


Scars

by Philomena85



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John beating up Sherlock and the aftermath, M/M, Sherlock recovering, s4e2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomena85/pseuds/Philomena85
Summary: Set after "The Lying Detective"Sherlock is home from hospital, recovering from his drug abuse - and the fight with John. The former best friends meet. Can they sort out their problems? (Translation of my German Work 'Narben')





	Scars

It took John eleven days before he could return to Baker Street, the place he'd called his home for so long, and that had become so strange to him in the last few months. If the nanny had not cancelled their appointment and Molly had not been so terribly exhausted, he wouldn't be seated in a cab right now with little Rosie beneath him, on the way to ask Mrs Hudson for help. Not because he did not trust her to take care of his daughter. The reason for his reluctance was on the floor above his former landlady's flat.

He had not seen Sherlock since he'd just escaped Culverton Smith's attempted murder. What had seemed like a nice chat among old friends afterwards had cost John all his strength. Of course, he'd been relieved that Sherlock had survived, but that relief had only lasted so long as he did not have to deal with what would follow. Sherlock's discharge from the hospital. Rehab. And maybe a debate. The last point was the one that John was most afraid of.

After Mary's death, he had tried to banish Sherlock not only from his life, but also from his thoughts; he had never succeeded. Whenever he had thought of the man whom he had blamed for Rosie having to grow up without her mother, he had been carried away by a wave of hatred, and had struggled with his demons until he was exhausted.

To see Sherlock again, to see what had become of him, to see how he ruined himself, had been fuel to the fire of his hatred. How could he bear to see what the man Mary had given her life for had done with his body? Maybe that was the point. Perhaps he had hit Sherlock because of this, had kicked him when he was already lying on the floor, and had almost heard the breaking of his ribs. All the furious rage had been unloaded and found its goal in this one moment. A just anger, as he had believed, until he saw Mary's videotape. And understood that Sherlock had done it all for him. How could he ever talk to him again? How could he look him in the eyes?

"Dada!"

Rosie's wildly pounding little hands met John's arm and took him back to reality, where there was now nothing more important than the little creature with the bright blue eyes, that squeaked amused in her child seat.

"Dada is here," he whispered, stroking tenderly through her thin, soft hair, breathing a kiss on her little head. The guilt for giving her away so often was like a thorn in his flesh that was going deeper and deeper. At some point she would regard him as a stranger, if he did not manage to be a good father to her. But how was he supposed to care for another human being when he was hardly able to manage his own life?

The cab stopped in front of the well-known, black-painted door, and John got out, the baby seat with his daughter in one hand, the front door key in the other. Only when he was already standing in the corridor did he begin to wonder how it could be that he still had a key to this house and the home of his former best friend. Wouldn't it have been normal for him to give it back after he and Mary had moved in together? But neither had he made arrangements to return the key to Sherlock, nor had he been asked to do so. It had been some kind of a quiet agreement that allowed John to return to his former home at any time, whenever he wanted to revive the good old days. The feeling that now prevailed in him, however, was a completely different one - it was naked fear. Fear of the confrontation with Sherlock, that his carefully erected shelter would be taken away from him, leaving nothing but ruins. Was it perhaps the best thing to give Rosie to Mrs Hudson and leave as soon as possible? He had to be at work in three hours, but today was one of those days when he wanted to be alone. The silence and loneliness that had almost killed him after his return from Afghanistan had become his companions in the last few months.

Shortly and steadily he knocked on the apartment door of his former landlady who greeted him warmly, but not the way it had been in the past; or did he just imagine that there was a certain rudeness in her behaviour?

"Of course, I can take care of her today, John," she said, lifting little Rosie on her arm before she began to look at the doctor, but without saying anything.

 

"Well, um ..." He cleared his throat. "Then I'll take her back at 9 pm?"

"John, you should go and see Sherlock."

There it was. The sentence he had been afraid of since he had climbed into the cab.

"I don't know if this is a good idea ..."

"You owe it to him."

If she had not held the child in her arms, she would surely have folded in front of her chest, though she didn't fail to look at him in a very reprobative way.

He had to admit that she was not quite wrong with this statement. He would go upstairs to take a short look at him and then go to work. What's the worst that could happen? It would be nothing more than a simple courtesy call, that was clear to him and that would also be clear to Sherlock. But that was exactly what was expected of him, and so he climbed the stairs, the steps slow and stagnant as they had been when he came here for the very first time. They had only seen each other once before he had decided to move in with the strange man with the fascinating eyes about whom he had known nothing but the name and the fact that he was dealing with solving criminal cases. Nevertheless, the next morning he had brought his few belongings into the apartment, which some had described as a "poisonous waste dump", but which seemed as if it was containing some kind of irresistible charm – well, apart from the things he occasionally found next to his breakfast in the fridge. He, the squeamish army physician and Sherlock, the chaotic genius, formed the perfect symbiosis. At least this had once been the case.

When he entered the apartment now, some odd smell came to him - everything in here smelled musty, as if nobody lived here any more. Quickly, he crossed the kitchen, breathed deeply, and knocked at Sherlock's bedroom door, which, as it was ajar, swung open.

The curly headed man lay in his bed, the blanket raised to his chin, his face turned away. With all his courage, John entered and walked around the bed until he could recognize his once best friend, who, as he now saw, did not sleep, but looked at him wordlessly.

"Hey ..." John greeted gently, raising his hand, trying to smile, "I thought I might look after you ..."

He himself did not really know whether he had expected an answer. He had often seen the younger man in silence, but he had not at all perceived his surroundings in such situations or simply ignored them; that he was staring at him now, without saying a word, was terribly sinister. John couldn't bear the silence any longer and so he tried to start a conversation.

"And how ... uh ... are you?"

Just a second after the meaningless set phrase had left his mouth, John realized how wrong his words were, how unsuitable - how hollow.

"What do you want to hear from me, John?"

Sherlock still looked directly into his eyes, but his voice sounded as if he were far away.

The drugs, the doctor thought, maybe he's so strange because the detox makes him ... Perhaps it had not been a good idea to dismiss him so early from the hospital ... who would care for him around here, apart from Mrs Hudson, who certainly looked after him now and again?

Suddenly, Sherlock pushed the blanket aside and jumped to his feet as if to escape the unpleasant situation as quickly as possible. John watched him as he walked past him into the kitchen with just his pajamabottoms on, his left leg limping slightly. A cold chill covered the doctor's back as his gaze met the naked back of his friend. All the scars, which cut through the almost white skin in various shades of red, a memorial of what had happened to him in Serbia and which he never spoke of. In between them, however, there were other bruises, huge bruises, only a few days old. Darkly discolored at the place where John's relentless kicks had broken three of his ribs. The once powerful, sinewy body of the dark-haired man seemed as fragile as if only one more violent touch would break him. So it was not the drugs that Sherlock had brought to hospital, but John's inability to overcome the pain of his wife's loss. It was all his fault. 

He had followed Sherlock into the kitchen, where he was standing just in front of the sink and threw two teabags into the cups, pouring the boiling water, placing one of the cups in John's hand, and walking into the living room. He picked up his dressing gown from the sofa, put it on with agonizingly slow movements, and let himself sink into his chair in front of the fireplace, again taking a rest. Hesitantly, John took his place in the chair on the opposite side and let his hands glide over the familiar fabric of the armrests.

"I missed that somehow ...", he mused, "To sit with you in front of the fireplace and drink tea ... It's almost like a long time ago."

Sherlock, who had left his teacup on the desk to his left and had not touched it since then, stared at John with a petrified expression, without commenting on what he said until he asked him a simple question:

"What do you want here, John?"

The older man just swallowed. When he did not answer, Sherlock's eyes began to gaze at him until they found what they had been looking for.

"Mrs Hudson forced you to come to me, and you've just agreed because you haven't found another babysitter for Rosie."

"No, I..."

"You've got a spot on your shirt, baby's saliva, and Mrs Hudson has been asking me for days why you're not coming to see me, so it's obvious that she sent you upstairs."

John could not answer, Sherlock had hit the bull's-eye with his deduction. He took a sip of his tea to bridge the oppressive silence that hung between them like a dark thundercloud. He had to say something - but he did not know what.

"I wanted to see how you are," he stammered, as if the speech-processing part of his brain was only capable of forming this one sentence, which gained more and more absurdity the more he repeated it.

"My kidneys will recover. Everything should be quite obvious even to you."

John looked up, saw how Sherlock rose from his chair, released the belt of his dressing gown, and let the thin silk fabric slip to the floor. He stood directly in front of him, so that the blond's eyes were now on a level with his belly. John wanted to turn away, but Sherlock caught him with his gaze.

"Look closely, John," he commanded in a low, cutting voice.

And John looked. He saw the black and blue hematomas above the ribs. The countless punctures in both arms. The circular white scar on his chest, where the skin still seemed to be crushed at the point where the bullet had pierced him. The yellowish discoloration on his chin, which was now covered by beard stopples, but still clearly showed where John's fist had hit his jaw.

"You knocked out one of my teeth."

Before John could look him in horror, the younger man turned around and turned his back, showing him for the first time, deliberately, the many scars that disfigured his skin, which was otherwise so pristine. God alone knew what had been done to him whilst in Serbia, and how long it would have been until Mycroft had taken him out of this hell. The marks of the badly healed wounds would be preserved for a lifetime, and would not let him forget how close he had escaped death.

And now John had added more marks to this map of terror, which, in all likelihood, would not leave any permanent damage, but would have made Sherlock dependent on painkillers for some time until the broken ribs had healed.

The lump in his throat seemed to choke him, took away the air to breathe, and drowned every word of apology, every plea for forgiveness. Helplessly, he held out a hand, wanted to touch Sherlock and show him what he could not tell him, but the dark-haired man jerked back.

"Don't..."

He bent down heavily, picked up his dressing gown again, wrapped himself in the soft fabric like a protective cocoon, and let himself sink into his chair again.

"I didn't want to ..."

John swallowed.

"Sherlock, do you really think I want to hurt you?"

Now it was up to the dark-haired to refuse an answer; he just stared absentmindedly into the blazing fire that Mrs Hudson had started in the morning to drive out the winter cold.

John leaned forward and put a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"Sherlock ..."

With unprecedented power, the curly headed man slapped his hand aside and glared at him with pure hatred.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME!" 

The blond raised his hands. Cleared his throat. Took a sip of his tea, though his hands trembled so much that he could hardly hold the cup. What had he done? How could he ever make up for it again?

"I did not want to do that, Sherlock, please believe me, I did not want to, just tell me what I can do to make you feel better ..."

No answer.

"Please, at least, talk to me, how should it be going on with us?"

"There is no 'us' left, you destroyed everything that was between us and what could have been, I risked my life for you, over and over, and you ..."

"I had just lost my wife!" John shouted against the rising tears, "I was alone with a small child and had to take care of everything, had to organize the funeral, had to find someone to take care for Rosie ... Good Lord, Sherlock, I do not even know how to pay the loans for the house!"

"Then is this all my fault?"

John looked up and stared into the man's expressionless face, which he would have unconditionally described as his best friend just a few months ago. What he looked into the eyes of the younger man now, he recognized that this was the look of a man who had everything and who had given himself up. If he chose the wrong words now, he would lose him forever.

The blond went over to the other chair and crouched on the floor. He resisted the strong urge to grab the younger's hands, and instead tried to explain his behavior.

"I was not myself, Sherlock, I thought I was going mad, it was as if my whole world were shattered, I did not understand why you started to destroy your life after Mary lost hers, trying to save you, I just saw you taking drugs and I was so angry with you ... I just lost control, but I promise you it will never happen again, just please Sherlock - give me another chance...."

With shaking hands, the Consulting Detective reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, revealing a cigarette that he immediately ignited. John sighed softly and let himself fall back into his chair.

"Do you have to smoke right now?"

Sherlock breathed the smoke out in a long breath and began to waggle with the cigarette in his hand.

"That's exactly what I mean, John," he replied, "you're always trying to control me, making me feel as if I were a small child unable to take care of nyself. At first, the whole thing still had a certain charm, but ... "

He shook his head, his arm dangling over the chair, and let a piece of glowing ash fall onto the carpet.

"Mycroft once told me what his first impression of you was."

"SO?"

"He said you could be my making – or make me worse than ever. Who would have known you'd succeed in both?"

"I do not understand?"

"I can not deny that you have made me a better man, but I have never been aware of the fact that I might pay a price for it that's much to high."

"What do you mean?"

John looked frightened, he guessed what Sherlock wanted to say. No. Please don't.

"John, I swore I'd protect you and your family, and I think I showed you how serious it is to me, I was ready to give my life for yours - and God knows I would still do this today, but we can not go on like that. "

The blond looked up at him, his lower lip quivering, and he was afraid of what was happening now.

"And what does that mean?"

"This means that our paths will part from now on."

For John, a world collapsed. He shook his head involuntarily, again and again, as if he could slay Sherlock's words. He did not want it to end here. Not today. Not like this.

"You're all I've got," he gasped, his hand thrust in front of his mouth, and stretched out the other to grab Sherlock, but missed him. His breathing accelerated, and it was only a matter of time before he would break down.

The dark-haired man tried to remain calm, to keep his indifferent expression, and to prevent one thing from happening: That he would let John have his way again. Caring is not an advantage. He repeated Mycroft's words like a mantra, anxious not to let John's pain affect him, to suppress the feelings of grief and fear that aroused in him. He had to stay hard now, otherwise he would always give in, lose again and again.

"You've got Rosie," he reminded the doctor.

At last John looked up at him.

"Why, Sherlock? If you banish me from your life, I'd like to know why."

Pure despair. And anger. The well-known rage that had destroyed everything. Sherlock decided to remain silent and wait for John to react. Maybe it was a kind of test. A last chance for the man who had made his life worth living in a way he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams. If their friendship really meant something to the blond, then he had to show it to him now. Silently, Sherlock took a pull on his cigarette without looking away from John. And then it happened.

John jumped up, grabbed him by the collar of his dressing gown - and screamed. Completely surprised by the sudden, piercing pain in his arm, he jerked back and stared at the burn hole in his shirt.

"You don't understand anything," Sherlock whispered; now it was up to him to shake his head, unspeakably disappointed that nothing had changed. "I risked my life for you, I was ready to die for you - and you thank me by beating me up and threatening to kill me?"

"I never..."

"'One more word and you won't need morphine' - your words."

John swallowed. He did not know what to say. He only knew Sherlock was right. He cleared his throat, but did not speak. He only looked at his former friend, who suddenly seemed so exhausted. Exhausted and saddened to death.

"You did not even apologize, not once."

The doctor nodded.

"I know."

He could not do it now either. Sometimes you just had to realize it was over. Even if the pain destroyed you from inside.

Sherlock stood up and, for a moment, they looked into each other's eyes until at the same time they lifted their arms and exchanged a short, firm handshake. It was the end of an era. For both of them. One last look.

"Farewell, John."

"Farewell, Sherlock."


End file.
